JUNK by Robert Kalkreuter She tore through the clutter on the back seat of her husband?s car, scattering the pieces of yellowed newspaper, the empty vienna sausage cans, the crumpled, unanswered mail, the bladeless ax handle. A pair of stained panties. Whose she didn?t know. She launched it all like aimless confetti against the windows…
Author: Every Writer
Richard Edwards has a BFA in Creative Writing and Journalism from Bowling Green State University and an M.S. in Education from the University of Akron. Managing editor of Drunk Duck, poetry editor for Prairie Margins, reporter for Miscellany, Akron Journal, Lorain Journal, and The BG News. He has also worked as a professional writer and editor in the medical publishing industry for several years. For the last 15 years Richard has also taught literature and writing at the secondary and post-secondary levels. He works much of the time with at-risk students.
On a Night Like This by Neeru Anand
On a night like this, he would not have been out. But tonight was different. This was an emergency. The consignment had to be delivered. He glanced back at the life-like statue covered in brown-paper. One of the antiques being shipped out. This would make his fortune the man had assured him. But the night worried him. He preferred nights to be dark and cloudy, the rain falling down in torrents, the stars hidden, the wind howling?all that ensured security guards huddled together, more than ready to wave him through.
Sweet Vengeance by Spandna Chokhani
I gave my paw one final lick and pressed my nose against the glass. The mangy canine ?I refuse to bestow the dignity of a name on a creature with no sense of personal boundaries or personal hygiene? was, as usual, outside digging in the yard. It was about time, I strained my ears for the unmistakable sound of our human’s footsteps.
Scatterbrain by Tinashe Chiurugwi
The hole in my head is not growing anymore. It stopped a few hours ago when I felt my brains hard-pressed against the insides of my skull. That is my problem, my hard skull. The hole cannot grow any further without cracking it open, and scattering my brains to reveal that I have an empty mind. When it started I liked it; the feeling of my thoughts interacting with each other as they ran away from the engulfing emptiness. I began to feel my own feelings, before other people could tell how I felt. I discovered my emotions before the chemicals responsible for them formed them.
Heavenly Bodies by Frank Hubeny
Heavenly Bodies by Frank Hubeny “I wish I had a heavenly body, but I’m a big, fat black hole. I suck the goodness from the Boston cream universe.” “Jane! What are you talking about? Fat? You’re 5 feet 6, 110 pounds, gorgeous. You hate donuts.” “I’m writing a poem, Brian. Don’t bug me.” “Again?” “A…
I really hate doing this! We need help!
I really hate doing this! We need your help again. We have run our: ?Raise Money Campaign? very quietly. It turns out, that’s not the best way to try to raise money for something. So, we are running this request to all of our readers once again. I hate asking for money, and please believe…
A Thank You From Evelyn by Eric Tarago
My wife handed me the small envelope addressed to me in ink. The return address was from San Antonio, which was curious, because I did not know anyone from that city anymore. The friends that I had met there had all reported for duty the same day I did, in other cities and towns
An Aria in Peru by Christopher Niemeyer
An Aria in Peru ?by Christopher Niemeyer Some people make trips to other countries only to immerse themselves in the? ordinary things they like to do back home.? There was that American retiree from Cuernavaca, a city full of American retirees. On vacation in Peru, she was now staying at their hotel.?? She told them…
Over and Out by Julie Morgan King
Over and Out by Julie Morgan King Simon parked the scooter and jogged up the stairs. He felt as light as a cloud. The audition had gone well. He?d taken the routine advice he?d dished out to truckloads of muddled patients over the years: breathe slowly, listen and focus. ? The gospels songs were sweetly…
The Astrologer by Debashish Majumdar
It was my friend Usha who introduced me to the new arrival in our locality. The astrologer was old, looked wise and he wore a saffron robe. He sat on a charpoy under a banyan tree, sheaves of paper stacked under his folded legs. A well fed green parrot cackled inside a rusted cage. Women of different shapes and sizes, huddled together close to him on a coir mat battling the summer heat.
Silent Genesis by L. Cesar Jimenez
My father, Oliver, is busy unloading all our belongings from our myriad luggage. He?s as robotic as the Automatons he crafted to help us with the move. At least they make beeping noises when they need re-charging. Then again, he had always been a silent man. But you?d think him a zombie since the passing of his wife, my mother Eleanor
Beside the Sea by Scott Seagram
At the end of the shift, he pushed a crumpled nondescript envelope containing three twenty dollar bills into my palm, but I left feeling empty-handed; he told me I didn?t get the job.
When Something Goes, Something Remains by Josepha Gutelius
I pause on the fifth step, pursued by no one. And nothing to see, except a painting on the wall of a man wearing my floral nightgown, Colt 45 in hand, a glossy finish. A lousy painting, nothing but an exact reproduction of the last photograph I took of him. Is there nothing left for the imagination anymore? You project a photo slide onto a canvas, then you just fill it in with paint. But it?s so lifelike I have an instant?s reflex to whisk myself out of harm?s way, my head down low, to duck the bullets. But no bullets come, they?ve disappeared, chronologically speaking.
Off The Page by Ren?e Hankins
Off The Page ?by Ren?e Hankins ?We haven?t been in one novel in the last five months. Not one.? Binky, the dapper protagonist, is a wanna be stat man. He?s a walking rememberer of current trends. ?How many drafts are you makin? through? I?ve been makin? it to two,? I testify. ?I?ve made three works…
Gone by Ronald Robert Moore
? Gone ?by Ronald Robert Moore Joe and Sparky ambled between the linear rows of orange trees. Joe proudly gripped the Sharpshooter bee-bee gun his father had given him for his tenth birthday. He squinted and peered down the long straight furrows between the rows. In a salute his right hand protected his eyes…